Scorpion Rising

Twenty-Two

Have you seen Sarra?' a little voice asked.

'We need to report in-'

'- only we haven't seen her for hours-'

'- and if she finds out we've been watching otters instead of taking our nap, she'll skin us alive-'

'- and hang our pigtails up on her wall,' Aridella finished with a poorly masked giggle.

Claudia looked down. Three unrepentant faces. Three bobbing blonde heads. Three small lives about to be shattered. Again.

'We couldn't sleep,' Lin said, her cheeks dimpling with pride. 'Not with Vanessia winning the contest-'

'- and the otter pups are so cuddly-'

'- though you have to know where to look-'

'- but if we don't report in to Sarra soon, Dora might find out-'

'- and then we'll get our hides spanked for sure.'

'I'll give you spanked hides myself, if you lot don't clear out of here,' a deeper voice laughed with a lilting Teutonic accent.

The girls spun round in unison.

'Oh, Swarbric, you won't tell on us, will you?' Vanessia pleaded.

'No, please don't.'

The young German scowled down at them, folded his arms over his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels.

'That depends on whether you reach the Field of Celebration before I do,' he said, pretending to consider. 'Suppose we say on three. One, two and-'

At the clap of his hands, the novices set off at a squealing run, their ceremonial skirts billowing behind them, their acorn headdresses skew-whiff, as they pelted back down the path. The instant they'd gone, the easy grin dropped from his face.

'Best that one of their own breaks the bad news,' he said. That way they'll know who to turn to for comfort.' His shock of grey hair shook from side to side. 'Poor little cows,' he added under his breath.

Looking at him, his handsome face twisted in a picture of empathy and compassion, one could be tempted to take him at face value. Except that Claudia had overheard him in conversation with Connal the morning before, outside his hut…

It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, he'd told him, shoving him against the wall. You bloody well do your job.

I'm not some sodding bear that can be forced to dance or be beaten to within an inch of its life, Connal had retorted, but Swarbric had contradicted him fiercely.

See these? He'd jabbed at his tight linen pants and the shirt that revealed most of his bared chest. This is the livery of a performing bear, he had growled, insisting the lad would get used to it in time.

And then later that morning — You enjoy your job, don't you? Claudia had asked on their way back from the Pit of Reflection.

Lets say I've become skilled at it, he'd replied, which was not the same thing. Not at all. We all have minds of our own, son, he had told Connal. It's our bodies that are in thrall

How often must a slave also be an actor? Claudia wondered. And what role was Swarbric playing now?

That he was embittered went without saying. Love! Do you think any of these women cares a copper quadran for you? They don't know the meaning of the bloody word, he had growled, and what happens to a caged tiger when it's had its teeth and claws pulled? Does it become less aggressive? The hell it does. It uses its massive paws like a club instead. The instinct to kill or be killed never dies…

She picked a sprig of chamomile and held it to her nose.

'Don't your people worship the sun?' she asked.

'Fire, the sun and the moon, aye.'

All three of which played a crucial role during the two equinoxes and both summer and winter solstices, she mused grimly. And all of which required sacrifice.

'Nothing you can't practise here, then?' she breezed.

A lopsided grin twisted his face. 'Assuming I wanted to, there'd be nothing to stop me, of course not. But let me tell you something else my tribe hold great store by among men. Chastity. Even their most powerful warriors believe carnal knowledge diminishes a man's muscles and makes him feeble in combat.' He flexed his with comic ostentation. 'What's your opinion on that, Lady Claudia?'

'I don't believe the preachings of men who swill beer from their boots, wear horns on their helmets and knot their hair over one ear can be taken seriously, either,' she said. 'How are your investigations going?'

He frowned. 'What investigations?'

'Beth told me she'd sent for you,' Claudia said. 'I assumed it was to enquire into the manner of Sarra's death.'

'Can't imagine why,' he said, shrugging. 'My job as Guardian of the Sacred Gate is to ensure that no one breaches the College boundaries, and on that matter I was able to reassure her. It is for others to investigate the circumstances, not me.'

'Because you're not qualified?'

'Because I'm not a woman,' he corrected. 'The HundredHanded conduct their own investigations and, my dear Lady Claudia, no man is privy to that.'

'Unless he can read their sign language.'

'Possibly, though I don't know of any who can.'

I do, she thought. Pod. And the law of averages said he couldn't be the only man curious enough to want to decipher their silent code. Gurdo, for instance, was an obvious candidate. No man could have had the run of the place, and for so long, without picking up at least the basic signals.

Oh, Pod, if they ever find out you can cipher Sarra's reaction had been one of sheer horror, when she discovered Pod could read hands, which meant Swarbric was either covering up for his fellow slaves or the slaves weren't owning up. Either way, Claudia decided, ignorance did not wash.

'So if you weren't investigating Sarra's murder,' she said, 'why were you bent over the body?'

'Hardly bent,' he said. (Well, it was worth a try.) 'But having assured the pentagram that security had not been breached by outsiders, I–I went searching…' He scratched his thick mop. 'Look, you haven't seen Connal by any chance, have you? Young lad, this tall,' he indicated with the flat of his hand a point just below the bridge of his nose, 'with fuzzy dark hair, only I sent him out on an errand around midnight last night and… well, he hasn't returned.'

Several seconds passed, in which she studied the change in his customary wolfishness which had given way to a thoughtfulness that was entirely new. A thoughtfulness that some people, she thought, might interpret as cunning 'You suspect Connal of killing Sarra?' she asked slowly.

Swarbric rubbed his hands over his face. 'Quite honestly, I don't know what to think,' he said at length. 'A girl's dead, he's missing, and so is the small canoe Gurdo keeps on the river for fishing.'

Claudia smoothed her robe and straightened her girdle. 'When was the last time you saw Elusa?' she asked.

'Foggoth Hillgund!' He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. 'Foggoth bloody Hillgund, those two idiots have used the festival to elope, haven't they?'

'You'll need to check on Elusa's whereabouts first, but yes, I agree. It's more than possible.'

Another stream of Teutonic swear words spilled out as he slammed his fist into his hand. 'Fools! They won't get five miles before somebody spots them,' he raged, 'then it's the Pit of Reflection for them both.' He spiked his hair with his hands. 'Shit, shit, shit, Connal. What the bloody hell have you done?'

He ground his teeth and swore at the heavens, then spun on his heel back to face her.

'I have no right to ask this,' Swarbric said, and his voice was now calm, his manner composed, as though he had taken a decision on which there was no going back, 'no right at all,' he stressed quietly, 'but you've seen the Pit, you know how unforgiving it is, and if you care anything at all for those stupid, stupid children, I beg you not to tell anyone.'

He drew a deep breath. 'I need to find them, Claudia. They'll need help to escape, because if the Gauls pick them up and report back to Beth, you know what will happen. Once any matter has become official, there's no going back.'

'But-' Claudia blinked. 'If you leave the grounds, what happens to you? Suppose the Gauls capture you?'

'You really think it matters what happens to me? I'm a slave, did you forget? There is no one in this place to grieve over my passing.'

'Oh, for gods' sake!' Claudia grabbed a fist of his shirt. 'You can't risk everything for two lovesick fatheads!'

Connal was passionate, impulsive, earnest and sincere, Elusa was genuine in her affection for him. But alone in the forest, living on berries and wits, whilst constantly having to glance over their shoulder, how long would love last?

'I give it a month, if they're lucky.'

'Better one month out there than twenty years stifled,' he growled, shaking himself free.

'Don't be a fool,' Claudia hissed. 'Out there, it's a case of two children playing grown-ups in the big wide world, and we both know they don't stand a chance. While in here, they're doomed the instant their first child is either swallowed up in the system or sold into slavery. For heaven's sakes, Swarbric, this is not a love that's going to stand the test of time.'

But he was already ducking the branches of alder and willow as his stride ate up the river bank.

'Just promise me,' he yelled over his shoulder, his reflection clear in the rippling stream. 'Promise you won't tell a soul about this. With luck I'll be back before the HundredHanded notice I've gone.'

Claudia stared up at the sheer grey rockface, where valerian danced in the sticky breeze and jackdaws made roosts on the ledge, and felt the shadow of fear crawl over her skin.

Do you know what they'll do to Elusa, if they find out what you 're planning?

The rest of his conversation with Connal flooded back.

Because they will, son. They always find out. These trees have ears, they have eyes, trust me, the Hundred-Handed know everything. They pool secrets the same way they pool their knowledge of nature, the same bloody way they pool us, and what the trees don't give away, pillow talk does. Now for gods' sakes, Connal, grow up.

And now here he was, a young man with the world at his feet, risking his privileges, his freedom, indeed his very life to save a couple ofteenagers whose future was doomed from the start. Claudia rubbed her face with the palms of her hands, and perhaps it was memories of Swarbric's dashing theatricals, maybe it was his well-honed disarming smile or the charm he'd worked so hard to perfect, but as she watched the seams of his pants (the ultimate livery of the performing bear) stretch to their limits as he bridged the stream with one bound, she found herself cupping her hands round her mouth.

'I promise,' she called, though he was running too fast and she knew that only the forest had heard.

While the shadow of fear grew heavier still.

Deep in the shade of a lightning-split yew, eyes followed Claudia Seferius as she made her way back down the path towards the Field of Celebration. When the battle cry rose to unite Gaul in its freedom and the cobblestones ran red with blood, how sweet would it be to make that one his whore, the eyes wondered.

She, who marches along with her chin held high and her shoulders squared back, as though she owns the bloody place?

What would it be like to take her, he wondered, have her beg for mercy at the point of his knife, simpering, whimpering, not so high and mighty then, he'd be willing to bet, and where would that famous Roman pride be then, eh? Grovelling in the dust of her own bloody arrogance, that's how fast her self-importance would fall. She'd be begging and pleading, praying to gods who didn't exist, and he saw her licking his boots with the length of her tongue, and then let's see how sharp it was, that wit of hers, with the dust of Gaul in her mouth!

He'd have her do it naked on the end of a chain.

See how it feels to be enslaved to another. Do this, do that, can't do this, don't do that. Now you'll dance to my tune, you bitch. I will have Rome writhing at my feet, washing them clean with its tears of self-pity, and pity you didn't think of anyone else except your own self-serving ends. Pity you didn't think of us before now.

Because you come marching in here, you seize our people, our soil, our traditions, our gods, ah, but you can't take our spirit, you bastards. Gaul is our homeland, Aquitani's our blood, and as we drive you out as we did once before, you will rue the day you set foot in this country.

And you, my pretty flashing-eyed Roman girl. What will you rue as I cut off your pretty Roman-style ringlets and hold a knife to your long Roman throat? Once your jewels and your clothes, your hair and your pride have been stripped bare at my feet, who will you call out to, I wonder?

Scorpion. Whisperer. What was a name?

But as I take you and take you and make you my whore, be sure of one thing, you bitch.

You will call me 'my lord'.